Did I ask for a haircut?
by si-star-x
Summary: After an injury, Dean cuts Sam's hair short. Ridiculously short. Sam is not impressed and Dean tries to make amends. Written for an ohsam prompt. ETA: I have now discovered paragraphs.


Sam's hair is much like Dean's jacket, the Impala even. It's a trademark. A signature that isn't messily scrawled on the back of fraudulent credit cards and medical insurance forms. Flopping at the head of a tall frame, the brown mass is the first indication of identity.

It moulds well with their frequent stints; slicked back, geek chic, ruffled if the situation was desperate. It's part of what makes Sam... Sam.

This is what floods through Dean's mind as he holds the scissors close to his brother's scalp. A sharp blade is necessary as chunks fall away, matted thick with dried blood.

Sam is going to kill him. Sam is going to absolutely slaughter him. The defence isn't even going to hold. So what if the brown mass of tangles was stopping Dean staunch the flow of a still oozing head wood? So freaking what.

Worse still, Dean knows that it all has to go. If the four inch gash from temple to cranium is going to be cleaned, stitched and protected, there will be a line of hair missing like a reverse Mohawk. It will look ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Fuck.

So he does it. He pulls the scissors through long strands of brown hair, still soft from extensive use of conditioner. As each follicle falls across the pillow and bed linen, Dean's heart clenches a little more.

Then it's done. The head wound is sealed, splashed clean and covered with a piece of gauze and secured by tape that probably wouldn't withstand the night. But it was something.

If Sam had been awake, there is no way this would have been the outcome. Bobby would have happily given up a baseball cap for a few weeks, and the more Dean considers it, the more he drills inside himself that well done, Dean, you have royally fucked up once again. But he was tired. Too tired to think rationally. He had a bleeding Sammy laying all over the bed covers, his eyes rolled back into his head and heart beating unnaturally fast. That's what he'll tell him when he screws. What would you have done, Sam? Let me bleed out?

Dean almost feels frightened to look across the space between their beds. It doesn't feel like Sam. Brown locks usually obscure closed eyes, but now the dark circles and too-pale pallor was vivid. Hair cut too short. Hair he had cut too short.

But what else was he supposed to do?

Sleep doesn't come easily that night, what with the fact his brother is still unconscious after a crazy hard bump to the head and all. Concussion is probably number one on their list of most common injuries, but it never comes any easier. Dean has threw up out of the Impala window and Sam has suffered memory loss for ten minutes, but that was the extent of the worst experiences. Hopefully Sam had memory loss this time. Perhaps Dean could convince him that 'hey, you cut your hair yesterday, don't you remember?'. It's almost as though he lives for guilt. Why do consciences even exist?

When he finally drifts off, head still turned away from the other bed, guilt at least lets him sleep without nightmares of Sam slicing his throat with the scissors.

One night of solace before the realisation and subsequent carnage.

Sam's eyes are still glazed over with pain and confusion, but as his jaw drops open in front of the mirror, he manages to yelp with ferocity.

"Dean!" His voice reverberates through the tiny bathroom. "Here, NOW!"

"Fuck." A muttered breath, hand ran through morning hair of his own. Hair he still had.

He finds Sam with both hands gripping the sink, knuckles pale and eyes wide.

"What did you do, Dean?"

Dean shakes his head, runs a hand again through his hair. Makes a mental note to really stop doing that.

Before he can offer an explanation, Sam interjects.

"I know what you are going to say." His eyes squint as he leans forward, carefully prods the stitching and winces. "But all of it, Dean? Really?"

"Sammy." Dean shakes his head, stepping forward to be closer to his brother. "You should have seen it. You looked like friggin' Britney Spears."

Sam furrowed his eyebrows, ignored the ridiculous reference to pop culture that so didn't add humour to the situation.

"Dude." Sam speaks in an attempt to stay calm. "You cut my hair off."

"I didn't have a choice."

"You cut all of my hair off."

"What was I supposed to do?" Dean's hands were held up in surrender. "I realise now that it probably wasn't the best solution, but -"

"'Probably wasn't the best solution'?" Sam repeated, scoffing slightly. "You cut off my hair. You don't just do that to a guy."

"You do when it's that or death, Sam." Dean's eyebrows furrow.

"You always exaggerate."

Sam is still inspecting his reflection in the murky mirror.

"You did such a shitty job!"

"I only had scissors."

"You cut all my hair off, and you made it look like a three year old did it."

"Well, I'm not a hairdresser."

"Ergo you do not cut my fucking hair."  
Dean knows it's a battle he isn't going to win, and damn, he feels guilty.

"I'm sorry, Sammy."

"My hair is gone, Dean." Sam points to his head, shakes a little too vigorously and grimaces as it tugs as still-sore flesh. "I want to just wake up from this nightmare."

"It's only hair." Dean offers, shrugging his shoulders. "It'll grow back."

"It'll grow back?" Sam repeats, exasperated. "It will grow back. In months. And it shouldn't have been gone in the first place!" His knuckles turn white again and he takes a deep inhalation of air. "Jesus."

Dean doesn't know what to say.

"I was scared, Sam." He offers softly, takes a step back so that he is leaning against he wall adjacent to the sink. "You know our field medicine lacks any substance. You know head wounds bleed like a bitch."

Sam does know that. He does. But last night Dean cut off his hair. All of his hair. It's not settling well.

"I'll get the electric razor out later." He continues, head tipped back against the wall. "I'll make it look intentional."

"I liked my hair." Sam replied, tearing himself away from the mirror and turning too quickly, encouraging a wave of dizziness to follow him. "When have you ever known me to have short hair, Dean?"

"Never." Dean admitted, "But it wasn't a haircut, Sam. I had to do it. You were bleeding." He tilted his head, crossed arms across his chest.

Sam pulled himself away from the sink, nodded his head once and then pushed through into the motel room.

He didn't speak to Dean for the rest of the day.

He doesn't speak much for the next two days. They don't take any more jobs, Sam doesn't leave the motel. His scalp is still too sore to pull a beanie or cap over to hide the monstrosity that is Sam without any hair. He hasn't let Dean anywhere near his head for a combination of fears; that his head can't quite handle the vibrations yet and that it'll make him look even worse.

"I really am sorry, man." Dean mumbles on the third day. "I know I screwed up with this."

Sam nods. He knows he's being melodramatic, but it was his hair. Jess used to run her fingers through that hair. She used to tell him that it made him stand out from all of the other guys. It made him unique. Especially gorgeous.

"Do you want me to take mine off too?"

Sam's head jerks towards his brother, eyebrows raise. "What would that prove?"

"That I'm a sucky big brother and that I want to make amends?"

The words do elicit a chuckle, and Sam can't help but smile. "I don't think that's necessary."

"Then will you quit being angry with me?" Dean's eyes narrow slightly, he genuinely hates the awkward atmosphere and wants things to just be normal again.

"I'm not angry." Sam shakes his head, frowns. "I'm just mourning my loss."

"Your hair is still in the trash. We could salt 'n' burn?"

Dean is definitely in crazy big brother mode. He used to do this all of the time when he was younger. If Sammy scraped his knee he would sacrifice his burger, his turn at sitting up front, the most comfortable bed.

"I suppose..." Sam speaks softly, thoughtfully, "You could sacrifice yours as well."

Dean grits his teeth but nods, holding a hand to his chest. "It's a small price to pay."

Sam sucker punches Dean in the arm. "You're such a jerk."

"You are such a whiny bitch."

"You destroyed my hair."

"You got yourself whacked in the head."

"You could have dealt with it better."

"I'm making amends."

Sam chuckles, gives up.

"Get the razor then."

So they salt 'n' burned a combination of dark blonde and brown strands that night, both wondering what they actually achieved.

"Although we look like a couple of convicts," Dean smiles as their bottles of beer click together, "You still look good, Sammy."

"I wish I could say the same for you." Sam smiles in return, takes a gulp of the cold liquid.

"Ouch." Dean chuckles, shakes his head.

"The only thing is, Dean..." Sam speaks thoughtfully, pointing towards his newly-shaved head. "I have this scar. My hair is never growing back."

Dean knows exactly where it's going, and no. "I'm not letting you whack me over the head, Sam."


End file.
